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Here are some rantings. A little too much for one blog, but this has been long simmering…

The 2016 election seemed to reveal the inhumanity of our fellow citizens.

Narcissism, racism, selfishness, and just plain meanness, won by a landslide. And a mentally unstable, know-nothing, racist, xenophobic man with a history of sexual assault and fraudulent business deals became our commander-in-chief.

This was not America.

And then I learned, from people I admire and respect, that day-to-day life — as viewed on November 9, 2016 — would not be so different for far too many people when Agent Orange was sworn in.

It would still be dangerous to be African-American in this country — the traffic stops, the arrests for wearing a hoodie, etc. [I learned that even my classmates from an elite American college were not immune.] Except even more police officers would walk away from murder charges.

People of all colors (other than white) would still be harassed and hounded and taunted. Except it could be more blatant now.

Women would still face gender-bias and harassment in the work place and everywhere else, but it could be more blatant now. I am in my 50s, so no one grabs at me anymore; it just affects my business generation and income. [That anyone thinks it is ok to grab another person’s body part without permission is such a clear example of unexamined biases in our society.]

Immigrants or perceived immigrants could be told to go back to their countries even if they have always lived here (even if they born here – or brought here as children — and had been here as many generations as the hate-spewing white person).

Peoplewho blamed others for taking away the jobs they were unqualified to have could rage with abandon.

And the ends justify the means. And if it meant that some powerless person was harmed or killed to make otherwise ineffectual white men (mostly) feel empowered, well, all the better. And these ineffectual white men did not hide it.

Neo-Nazis still existed, except they no longer hid behind hoods.

We were, of course, united by the existential threat that the Mango Mussolini would get us blown up by nukes or cause our economy to melt down because of unbridled greed and abject stupidity.

This is not America (but it is).

While I was tortured and devastated, I thought that my life — even as a white, liberal, Jewish lesbian — that would not change, as long as I lived out Trumpism in New York City.

But the vitriol and the hatred unnerved me. And the hate crimes surged here.

And I felt powerless.

And then my perception of reality did change.

I would love to say that I resist and march for others. But that is not true.

I fight for my life, my beliefs and my family legacy. I own this fight. And every win is a triumph — if a racist cop is imprisoned, a Trump associate is indicted, a government subsidy to the wealthy is revealed, or a judge smacks down Administration for its Muslim travel bans. Maybe that makes it more real for my compatriots when they look at this middle-age, well-to-do white woman.

Because it is about me. And about you. And about you and me.

And standing up is itself a gift. The Sunday after Rosh HaShanah, there was the Muslim American Day parade. There were about seven of us who went to hold up the sign:

We were greeted with such love and joy. I was the one crying from gratitude. And then we were asked to march in the parade.

So seven New York Jews marched in a parade alongside Muslim Americans whose heritages spanned the globe.

Everything in my life brought me to that day — my immigrant grandparents, my striver parents who didn’t speak English until first grade, who became upper middle class professionals, through public school education and the GI bill.

I am learning about the America that was and that is. And I am learning about the necessary work to make good on the promise of America. Because I want America to be that of my grandparents’ fantasies. Because I want everyone I know and everyone in my subway car has an equal chance at prosperity, safety, security and health. (Happiness is never guaranteed.)

And then, daily indignities of having Trump as president, backed by the political sewage that is the GOP leadership, gave rise to a “I am too tired to be silent” rage. And then came the tidal wave that was the culmination of each act of love, patriotism and resistance:

“Me, too” meme that has felled so many (except for the Groper-in-Chief).

The teetering campaign of Roy Moore, the poster child of ‘America Gone Psycho.”

The clear inability (thank G-d) of the GOP to govern.

The people associated with Trump getting indicted.

People realizing that taco stands on every corner is an awesome concept.

The realization that the children of those who are running the stands are the future of American. Just like my grandfather with his apple stand.

Also? head scarves are cool.

And then hope came this off-year Election Day. Democracy could carry the day. If we stay vigilant and take nothing for granted. And if we believe that we are all created equal and with inalienable rights to life and prosperity. Maybe not happiness, but maybe safety in our homes and on our streets from robbers, thieves and agents of local, state and federal government.

And one more wish?

Let that same damn landslide bring them down. (oh, for all the Neo-Nazis and White Supremacists, thanks for taking off your hoods. Now we know where to find you.)

I was at a meeting outside of city today. I took a commuter train. It was exciting for me, the ultimate city dweller. No, I can’t imagine an everyday commuter thinking this way. And I was “reverse commuting” so the uncrowded train made it like I was going to spend a day in the country. (Except that I was in a dress and heels.)

Yes, it is ok to roll your eyes at the seen-it-all-yet-wide-eyed New York City girl.

I went to the 125th Street stop because who needs to schlep to Grand Central Station if you live on the Upper West Side? First thing: look at the landscape and determine that the on-coming train was going in the right direction. To get my bearings, I noted the Triborough Bridge (ok, the RFK Bridge to those born yesterday). The sky and views on a Fall morning were in fact spectacular (if you are a city kid, like me).

Then, I had to ask the conductor or engineer (whoEVER) if it was getting on the correct train. Never, ever, ever, in decades of riding New York subways, have I ever had to ask such a question of train personnel.

But the truth is that for all my New York smarts, I have no confidence that I could navigate the commuting life successfully. Checking train schedules, timing it just right, missing a train because of subway delays, would send my blood pressure into the stroke zone.

It was a great meeting and a valuable trip. Business potential, brain engaging projects, blah blah. A promising day on the road to a working person’s Utopia. (Where did those days of idealism go? Oh, mortgage and tuition. Right.)

And then.

After our day long meeting, an assistant at the company drove me the three steps to the train station. (I am exaggerating; it is a FIVE minute walk.) She was so gracious and insistent and I was wearing heels, that I couldn’t refuse the offer and the hospitality.

We were having a lovely conversation on the way down to the parking lot and through the quaint suburban streets. A crazy driver with his (I assume) family nearly sideswiped us (at the time, I couldn’t help but think the road aggression was personal), as he tried to barrel ahead through non-existent traffic. Then he started to weave on town streets (but not drunkenly so), only to come up beside us and yell:

“Snapperhead!”

Whaaat? I never heard that word before.

“Well, that was unpleasant,” my gracious host replied.

“What does that even mean? I have never heard that before.”

“It is a derogatory word for Korean.”

Whoa. Did I imagine the earlier aggression? Was he gunning for her?

“Can I get out and beat him with my heels?”

I was so mad and so outraged at this man with a child in the back seat saying such a thing, TEACHING such a thing, that I was ready to fight hate with violence. And that is the wrong way to change hearts and minds but it would have felt really good, especially since he was getting ready to drive away and I only had a few seconds to deliver a message. And I thought a “FUCK YOU” message was the least I could do.

“I have heard worse and the really sad thing is that there is a child in the car who will learn from him.”

“I know. I get that. And I am sorry that about my outburst about beating him with my heels. That is not the answer.”

“I get called names a lot. It hurts but I don’t let it get me down.”

That stunned me. A lot? What is happening to this country?

“I sort of get that, in a small way.” But really the only reason I, an otherwise white, privileged woman, get it is because I am gay. So, I continued, “I am gay and the hateful things people have shouted at me when I least expect it is so much harder for me because my guard is down. Here we are having a very funny conversation, and someone spews hate out his window. What a misguided coward.”

“Now,” my new friend said, “I don’t get that discrimination. . . .”

I was shocked. How do you think of others in this situation? My new friend has a kind and gentle soul Our conversation continued as to how to undo and prevent these types of prejudices. I was almost late for my train.

In the midst of suburban quaintness, immense wealth and potential deal-making, there converged narrow-minded ugliness and the resilience of the derided person’s sense of humanity and justice.

And a moment shared between two women of different backgrounds, cultures, economic classes, and races, who have both been bruised by prejudice, albeit to different degrees.

That was moment that turned a good day into a great day. And filled an otherwise cynical New Yorker with hope.

The homeless go without eating. The elderly go without medicine. The mentally ill go without treatment. Troops go without proper equipment. Veterans go without benefits that were promised to them. Yet we give billions in tax breaks to the wealthiest 2% of Americans — those who need it least.

Why do the babies starve
When there’s enough food to feed the world
Why when there’re so many of us
Are there people still alone

Why are the missiles called peace keepers
When they’re aimed to kill
Why is a woman still not safe
When she’s in her home

Love is hate
War is peace
No is yes
And we’re all free

But somebody’s gonna have to answer
The time is coming soon

Amidst all these questions and contradictions
There’re some who seek the truth

But somebody’s gonna have to answer
The time is coming soon
When the blind remove their blinders
And the speechless speak the truth

In 2011, let’s try to judge our success not by the toys we have but by the success of the most needy or vulnerable in our society. Surely, this nation was founded upon the frontiersman’s rugged individualism. But most people stop there (in a self congratulatory way) because they forget that the sentence doesn’t end there. This nation was founded upon the frontiersman’s rugged individualism AND community-giving that sustained the frontier settlements in harsh times.

There is a portion of our society that thinks that the fact of one’s wealth proves his or his entitlement to it. They forget the parents or grandparents who struggled to provide them with everything, the teachers who taught them, the bosses who took interest in them and, the importance of that mercurial of all things, luck.

Wealth is not yours alone; it belongs to many whose efforts culminate in the success of you.